


Lesson

by Lulzy (likelolwhat)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Naked Male Clothed Male, Semi-Public Sex, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27580046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likelolwhat/pseuds/Lulzy
Summary: “Let’s just say I have a habit of lifting young men with potential from the gutter, and I ain’t about to stop now. If you don’t want to, however…” He lowers the book back to his side.Potential. Kieran’s eyes hurt; they’re probably round as the full moon. “I’m not— I’m not sayin’ no,” he sputters. He recognizes a once-in-a-lifetime chance when he hears one. He’s scared as hell but the fluttering in his belly tells him this is right.Dutch smiles, and that fluttering coils warm and low, before jumping straight to his head.He’ll be the best student ever, he decides, if only he gets to make Dutch smile like that at him again.(Dutch teaches Kieran to read. Or tries to, anyway.)
Relationships: Kieran Duffy/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Lesson

“Mr. Duffy,” Dutch says behind him, and Kieran freezes. Because it’s Dutch, and not one person in this gang has ever called him that. Kieran, at best. O’Driscoll, usually. And other things.

“Sir?” He hates that squeak, hates it. Old Boy flicks his ears at him, the brush paused high on his neck. Kieran finishes the stroke and sets the brush aside, turning to find Dutch leaning against the hitching post, cigar in hand, watching him. Far too closely, and far too close.

Jesus, it’s terrifying enough being subjected to that stare from across the camp.

Dutch just — watches. The longer he goes without showing a trace of emotion the more nervous Kieran gets. He tries not to fidget, he really does. “D-did you need something, sir?”

Finally, Dutch brings the nearly-gone cigar to his mouth and takes a puff. “I couldn’t help but overhear you talking to Miss Gaskill last night.”

Jesus Christ. Kieran jerks back, bumping into Old Boy, who snorts in annoyance but stands still. He doesn’t have time to be grateful for that, too focused on the swift flood of panic setting his nerves aflame. His hands rise to… defend? _You’re an idiot, Duffy_ , the mantra goes, but it’s drowned out by the jumble of half-formed apologies spilling from his lips. He shouldn’t be apologizing, he _knows_ that. It’s not like Dutch owns Mary-Beth, or can dictate who she talks to, especially when he has much bigger things to be worried about.

He’s only stopped, though, when Dutch comes forward. Between him and Old Boy, Kieran has nowhere to run. Not that he could, anyway. Not without consequences.

“Relax, boy,” Dutch soothes. “It’s not that.”

Kieran feels rather like a wild animal when Dutch uses that voice, or maybe a lamb for slaughter. But something zings up his spine, and he does relax, a little. “Th-then?”

“You never learned to read.” Another puff of the cigar, then Dutch snuffs it out under his boot. Kieran wonders how much of that cigar was actually smoked and how much was just for effect.

He blinks, but Dutch doesn’t say anything else, just nods back in the general direction of his tent. _Go on._ Thoroughly confused now, but at least given somewhat-clear instruction, Kieran follows the unspoken order. Dutch’s footsteps behind are too loud, too deliberate, and his shoulders hunch nearly up to his ears. Definitely a lamb to slaughter. Is Dutch going to kill him for not being able to read? The thought is absurd, but that’s the only explanation he can think of for the older man’s grim silence.

He stops at the flap, turning back to Dutch, who raises an eyebrow and gestures for him to enter. _Jesus_.

There’s precious few people around in the middle of the day, and none that Kieran could turn to. He swallows. Some fragile hope remains. Just because he can’t think of anything—

Dutch’s other eyebrow joins its fellow, somewhere around his hat, and Kieran skitters into the tent.

The flaps on the far side, near the tithing box, are closed tight, and Molly is nowhere to be seen. Kieran’s not been inside since the day he saved Arthur’s life, when Dutch decided he wasn’t worth the bullet, but made it clear that was subject to change. His eyes fix on the gramophone, for something to look at other than Dutch untying and retying the flaps closed behind him.

His hat is in his hands; he doesn’t remember taking it off. His knuckles are white, clutching it, and he forces himself to loosen his grip. He ends up rotating the thing by the brim instead.

“Relax, boy,” Dutch repeats, a little sharper, but there’s a chuckle on its tail.

His stomach is roiling, but that noise sends a flutter into it too. Jesus, what is wrong with him? “I don’t…” A lump settles in his throat, cutting him off.

Dutch passes him, rummaging through a crate on the far end of the tent. It’s a big space, the biggest by far in the camp, but it’s not nearly big enough for Kieran. At least Dutch can’t shoot him while his back is turned. But too soon he’s finding whatever it is and facing Kieran again, watching him again.

“I, dear boy, am going to teach you how to read.” He holds up the book. The leather binding is falling apart, the pages well-loved.

Kieran recoils, nearly dropping his hat. He has to blink several times before his brain starts moving again, and when it does it charges ahead as if to make up for lost time. His thoughts jumble up into each other, most of them relieved or mildly perturbed at not being told that in the first place. But one stands out, an ironic lilt to the little voice.

_Mr. Marston did say he was more like a teacher._

He hasn’t seen a single bit of evidence for that until now, but then again he wasn’t raised by the man, so what does he know?

“Why?” The question is out before he can stop it. Sniffing the gift fish, he heard it called once. He considers it both a good and bad trait, but as Dutch’s warm chuckle washes over him again, it slides firmly into “good” territory. 

“Let’s just say I have a habit of lifting young men with potential from the gutter, and I ain’t about to stop now. If you don’t want to, however…” He lowers the book back to his side.

 _Potential_. Kieran’s eyes hurt; they’re probably round as the full moon. “I’m not— I’m not sayin’ no,” he sputters. He recognizes a once-in-a-lifetime chance when he hears one. He’s scared as hell but the fluttering in his belly tells him this is right.

Dutch smiles, and that fluttering coils warm and low, before jumping straight to his head.

He’ll be the best student ever, he decides, if only he gets to make Dutch smile like that at him again.

#

When he’d first been tied up in the barn in Colter, Kieran’d thought Dutch’s interrogation methods laughable. He thought he and starvation old friends; Colm didn’t exactly have a feast hidden up in the mountains and he was at the bottom of the ladder, last in line. Hunger gnawed at his belly long before Mr. Morgan slung him over the back of his horse. It’s one of the reasons he held out so long; that and fear.

But this is a whole different kind of torture.

He’s sitting on the bed, the book laid out on his lap. It turns out to be an old journal, with notes in two different hands: the neat script of Dutch himself and, copied, a child’s scrawl, probably Arthur’s. The alphabet, some basic words. The letters swim in and out of focus, a headache reigns as king behind his eyes, he can’t make sense of anything… But that isn’t the worst of it. Because Dutch is sitting next to him, close enough to hold the edge of the book and point at the letters. God, he can smell his cologne. He’s hyper-aware that he probably smells like horse. Did he scrub behind his ears this morning? He can’t remember—

But Dutch doesn’t mention it, doesn’t remark on how close they are, just sounds out the letters in that honey-and-velvet voice of his.

Kieran is glad for the book over his lap, because he is _also_ aware of what that voice is doing to his groin.

“—what is this letter called?”

He snaps back into focus at the question, tensing up. Dutch taps the first letter in the list. Kieran leans closer, willing the pencil lines to stop blurring. Dutch’s gold rings flash in the lamplight—

“Mr. Duffy.”

His mouth opens, an inarticulate squeak coming out. “Aaah?”

It’s not meant to be an answer, but Dutch shifts closer, pressing his thigh firmly to Kieran’s, and says mildly, “That’s one of the sounds it makes, yes. It’s called _A_.”

 _Jesus_. It’s much cooler inside the tent than outside, but Kieran can feel sweat drip down his back.

Dutch reaches, takes Kieran’s thin, long-fingered hand in his. He feels… fragile, being held like that, but Dutch is gentle as he guides Kieran’s index finger over the page to draw the shape of the letter. “ _A_.”

“ _A_ ,” Kieran repeats, breathy. He’s sure he’ll forget it by tomorrow, with the state he’s in. He tries anyway, ghost-drawing the letter once more. Dutch hasn’t dropped his hand, but his grip is loose. And warm. He can feel Dutch’s eyes on him, through the curtain of his hair, but he can’t look.

“Good,” Dutch sighs. “Very good.”

Kieran can’t help the smile that praise brings. The fluttering, momentarily stopped, starts up again. Thank God for the book, or Dutch’d get an eyeful of the erection in Kieran’s hand-me-down pants.

He’s still terrified, of course, but he’s also turned on. And embarrassed at being turned on, which only fuels it.

Dutch is different. He never felt this way around Colm, despite the fear there too. He helped move too many bodies in his short time there, and Colm never treated him like anything other than a shitstain on his boot. It helped that Colm is an ugly son-of-a-bitch, but there’s also the fact that Dutch is just… Dutch.

What the ever loving hell is he going to do? One wrong move and Dutch really will kill him, as kind as he’s being right now. He has to stop this attraction from becoming a full crush before it’s too late. _The tree, the tree. Think of the tree_ —

“Kieran,” Dutch murmurs into his ear.

He freezes, every muscle in his body tensing. All but his heart, which skips once, twice, then thunders away painfully.

Dutch is rubbing small circles into the back of his hand with his thumb. He hasn’t dropped it. They’re _holding hands_. Kieran can’t move, but he doesn’t want to.

“Kieran, look at me.” Dutch reaches up with his other hand.

He flinches, expecting Dutch to… what? Hit him? Grab his chin and force him, at the very least, but Dutch just sighs, pausing a moment, then moving slower. Kieran watches that hand carefully, but it just brushes his hair away from his face and tucks it behind his ear.

He turns, meets Dutch’s eyes.

 _Jesus_. Dutch has such a foreign expression on his face that it takes a long, long moment for Kieran to recognize it as desire. Desire at, for, him. His brain may well combust.

He has just enough space, after realizing that, to draw a sharp breath.

Then Dutch lunges forward, free hand wrapping around his shoulder and the back of his head to hold him in place, and kisses him. Hungry, devouring. Kieran gasps and Dutch invites himself in, hauling Kieran into his lap and deepening the kiss. The book tumbles, already forgotten, to the ground.

Perched in his lap, Kieran can’t hide his erection, but as Dutch grinds up into him his worry falls away.

“Boy, what you do to me…” Dutch mumbles the words into his mouth, and Kieran swallows them. He’s breathless and dizzy, thoughts and feelings jumbling up together like trains meeting head-on. A part of him — the part of him that has never been able to let go — wants to think about it, but the rest, Kieran, is done thinking.

He chases when Dutch pulls away, and Dutch groans, tugging at his hair. It hurts but it’s good, the burn of his scalp complementing the fire consuming the rest of his body. He braces himself on Dutch’s shoulders and grinds down. He should be afraid of the erection he feels there, even through layers of clothes, but it near drives him mad. This man is hard for him.

Dutch pulls him away by the hair, drawing a yelp from him that tapers off into a moan, and pushes him down onto the bed. He looms over Kieran, dark, lust-clouded eyes flicking over him, and he squirms, missing the friction for his aching cock.

“Hush,” Dutch orders, and sets to work on the buttons on Kieran’s rumpled shirt. Inch by inch his skin is exposed. Pale, marred by old and new scars here and there, though the hunger in Dutch’s eyes never wavers. But when the shirt is completely off, flung to the far corner of the tent, Dutch pauses.

Kieran squirms more, feeling the older man’s gaze, like a touch, lingering over his jutting collarbone, counting his ribs. It’s partly by nature but mostly from the starvation, only ended a month or two before.

Dutch says nothing. He returns his attention to Kieran’s pants, his movements just as deft as before but somehow— not gentler, exactly, but his fingers manage to graze Kieran more to undo those few buttons than the entirety of the shirt. The feel of those callouses so close to his groin, but never there, sets him writhing. It’s the cool metal of a ring, pressed so deliberately if fleetingly to the feverish skin just shy of his pubes, that makes him arch off the bed and bite hard on his lip to stifle a cry.

Dutch doesn’t wait for him to recover. Kieran reels with the knowledge that if his instincts had failed him, if he had made the noise he stopped just in time, the whole camp would know what was happening. Not that— maybe they already suspect by now, if the flaps have been down this long.

“Hush,” Dutch orders again, running a hand over Kieran’s bare hip. He’s completely naked now, while Dutch remains as impeccable in dress as ever.

Kieran shivers, but refocuses. Dutch.

“Good,” Dutch says, husky and dark but it sends jolts of want up Kieran’s spine, reawakens his neglected cock. He bucks, seeking friction, and Dutch presses him back down by the hip. “Hush, now. Do I need to tie you down, Mr. Duffy?”

“God, yes.” The words are out before his filter can catch them. It doesn’t matter; the filter is a coward.

Dutch raises a brow at him, but then smiles: slow, indulgent. “Well, then.” It’s entirely too knowing but Kieran doesn’t care. If he gets this— Dutch leans away, rummaging under the bed for but a moment before he’s back with something in his hand. It’s one of Molly’s scarves — the realization makes Kieran blush but does absolutely nothing to tamp down on his desire — flimsy silk, dyed royal blue. Kieran offers his wrists, though he half-fears he might rip the thing later, but Dutch folds it in half before tying it and he finds it surprisingly strong against his testing tugs.

“And…” Dutch produces another scarf, in emerald green. It’s longer, in a thicker material. This one connects Kieran’s bound hands to one leg of the bed, holding them in place above his head with enough give that he knows Dutch has done this before.

“Beautiful,” Dutch murmurs, sitting back to admire.

Kieran is already a flushed, panting mess, the thought of the things Dutch could do to him in this state terrifying and electrifying all at once. “Sir…” he whines, arching his back.

“Hmm?” The older man leans in, pressing a gentle, almost chaste kiss to Kieran’s mouth that quickly becomes hungry when Kieran moans and deepens it.

He’s forgotten what he was going to say by the time Dutch pulls back, his kiss-swollen lips finally — finally! — the only thing about him that betrays that he is _here_ , not outside smoking a cigar or chatting with Hosea.

“What is it?”

Does it matter, what he was going to say? If it was anything other than the “Please…” that comes out, it is irrelevant now.

“Please what?” Dutch sounds amused, idly tracing a pattern on Kieran’s stomach while he trembles.

Kieran growl-whines, bucking his hips. _Touch me_ , he wants to say, but the words get jumbled on the way from his brain to his mouth, and “Fuck me!” comes out instead. Too loud, probably.

And Dutch actually laughs, rolling chuckles that make his eyes sparkle so, even darkened with lust as they are. “If you insist.” The hand on Kieran’s stomach darts up to flick his nipple. It’s such a casual, but quick movement that Dutch is off the bed, grabbing something from underneath it, and back where he was by the time Kieran has so much as squeaked in surprise.

“I take it you’ve done this before,” Dutch says, still full of good humor.

It’s said casually, and he _has_ done this before, in a few contexts. Dutch doesn’t know, probably, but if he keeps talking like that, if he gets curious… “Don’t wanna think about that right now,” Kieran mutters. “W-wanna stop thinkin’ so much. Please.”

There’s a pause while Dutch does exactly the opposite of what Kieran wants: his eyes narrow, and he studies Kieran’s flushed face. Whatever he finds there isn’t enough to stop him, though — _thank God!_ — and instead his lips curl up in a smirk. He grasps a bony hip and flips him onto his stomach in one smooth movement.

The pillow muffles his startled gasp. The scarves twist, but hold. He turns his head, shaking his hair out of his face. He can just barely see Dutch around his raised arm, more a blurred impression at the edge of his sight than anything. Dutch’s hand alights on his hip again, not pushing or pulling but there, the rings cool against his skin.

Kieran knows what it means. He obeys the unspoken command, shifting onto his knees. Dutch makes a pleased hum that arcs up Kieran’s spine like lightning, strong fingers stroking his hipbone gently but firmly.

He makes some kind of noise, a breathy whine, and Dutch leans over him, murmuring into his ear, “If I’d known you’d be so demanding about it I’d have done this a long time ago,” even as his hand moves from Kieran’s hip to his ass.

His brain short-circuits with Dutch’s voice so close to his ear, and before he can rein it in his mouth has run away from him. “N-not sure I’d have liked it quite so much while I was starving.” Talking so much isn’t a good idea, not with his breathing so erratic and his cock demanding attention he isn’t certain Dutch is going to give.

Dutch laughs softly. “Maybe not.” He shifts, and his hands leave. Kieran’s about to protest when the sound of a jar being unsealed reaches his ears, around the same time the distinct smell of hair pomade wafts to his nose.

He doesn’t quite realize how much he’s squirming with anticipation until Dutch leans over him again, stilling his movement with the press of one slick finger to his hole. It’s cold and foreign but his body welcomes it, opening up, welcoming Dutch in. The other man’s breath doesn’t quite hitch, but it does deepen, and Kieran spreads his legs wider.

Dutch takes his time, too much time, and it’s not long after he finally gets a second finger that Kieran takes matters into his own hands, thrusting back, fucking himself on those thick digits. Dutch lets him, for a moment.

Then Dutch brings up his other hand, gripping Kieran’s hip hard enough to bruise, holding him in place. “Eager,” he admonishes.

Kieran pants and whines, and barely stops himself from cursing, for fear he’ll turn those curses on the most feared gang leader this side of Flat Iron Lake. Some part of him is still aware of that.

“Shh,” Dutch soothes, again into his ear, and that part shuts up and lets the rest of him shiver from something other than terror. “If you’re that ready, I suppose…”

Dutch pulls back a moment, again, and then his cock slides smoothly into Kieran.

The stretch burns a little, but it’s an amazing burn, and Kieran shifts so it goes deeper, deeper, until he bottoms out, Dutch pressed flush against his ass. He moans into the pillow. Dutch pauses, thumbs stroking Kieran’s hips on either side, breathing deep and ever so slightly ragged.

Then he sets an achingly slow pace. Gliding in and out, catching on that place deep inside that makes Kieran groan but not fast or strong enough to make him see stars. His cock weeps, untouched. He tries to wait, but Dutch seems determined to make this last, and shows no signs of either stopping or coming. “Please…” he moans. It’s been too long.

And Dutch immediately changes, pulling out and slamming back in so forcefully it shoves Kieran up the bed two inches. He wiggles, finding the right angle to hit the spot as Dutch pounds into him, and is rewarded by a growl like an animal’s from the gang leader and an explosion of pleasure in his head. Dutch’s hands are definitely going to bruise. The bonds on his wrists, too, pulling this way and that.

He’s building, getting so close to coming his toes are curling already, moaning and keening without thought for the world outside. He can’t think, right now, world narrowed to his need and Dutch. Dutch’s hands on his hips, Dutch’s pants and growls filling the small space, Dutch’s cock inside him.

Finally, Dutch reaches down, and tugs, once, twice on his neglected cock, and Kieran comes so forcefully he’s pretty sure he blacks out for a second. When he returns, a puddle of satisfaction, it is only a moment before Dutch’s rhythm breaks.

Dutch presses flush against him, teeth finding Kieran’s shoulder as he comes as well. His cock pulses, hot seed filling Kieran, and both of them groan at the feeling.

They remain like that for a few seconds, until Dutch withdraws. He kisses where he bit — no blood drawn, just an impression of teeth that will bruise and _mark_ — and when he finally lets go of Kieran’s hips the younger man collapses, boneless, to the bed.

Dutch unties the scarves, fingers only slightly uncoordinated. Kieran rolls to the side, and Dutch follows, both careful not to lay in Kieran’s seed. They lay facing each other, Kieran tucking his head into Dutch’s collarbone and relishing the sensation of Dutch stroking his hair.

It’s not yet dinnertime, and eventually they will have to move — or at least, Kieran supposes, he will — but for the moment they’re both content to bask in the afterglow. He’ll worry about the world outside later. He’ll worry about what this means, too. Right now he cannot be bothered.

Dutch’s voice rumbles in his chest, and it takes a second for the words to reach Kieran’s sleepy, sated brain. “Never did make much progress on your lesson…” 

Kieran yawns. “All respect due, sir, I don’t think we’re going to.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if I need to tag anything else; I'm running on about 3 hours sleep right now.


End file.
